


Mo Tràill, Mo Cridhe

by queenklu



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Marcus wants to be owned, then Esca will gladly hold his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mo Tràill, Mo Cridhe

The remaining legionaries invite them to rest with their tribe, but their words are weary and half-hearted. “Thank you,” Esca says, one eye on Marcus always, “but we need to get The Eagle back to Rome.”  
  
This answer seems to settle them and please Marcus, though surely he must realize they are in no condition to travel. Marcus is swaying on his feet, wearing the half-drawn smile of one stunned to be alive. He follows where Esca leads without a word, deep into the forest until they come to a spot to rest out of sight of the haunted eyes of centurions. The trees are dense enough to shield them from any further rain, and Esca can make a fire to warm them and they will finally be able to sleep.  
   
“I have it,” Marcus says before Esca can ask him for the flint; his arms are already full of branches and twigs gathered around the clearing. Esca finds himself distracted by Marcus’s bloody-knuckled hands holding the flint with care, shielding the kindling until it catches the larger sticks alight—so distracted that Marcus is already unrolling their bedding before he can stand, and when Esca moves Marcus shakes his head and gestures him back down.  
   
At least Esca can get their food. The provisions the Seal People carried with them are now tucked into the folds of cloth obscuring the shape of The Eagle; Esca retrieves enough dried salmon to suit them, sets it close to the flames to warm it as an indulgence, even though they could eat it cold. When Marcus sees what he’s done his mouth quirks in an odd way, as if he’s trying not to smile.  
   
For Esca—who never truly hoped to see night fall on this day or Marcus smile again—it makes his heart leap. “What is it?”  
   
Marcus looks up, then back at the fire, running a hand across his mouth. “It’s only…I never thought I would be commanding Roman soldiers again.”  
   
Esca turns his gaze away. “Today Rome lost soldiers it had forgotten,” he says, touching his fingers to the salmon to test it. “But the Selgovae lost fathers and husbands. I do not think they would welcome us without pain in their hearts.”  
   
Marcus’s smile is gone now, but his eyes are sharper, watching Esca across the flames. “Eat,” Esca urges, even though the fish could be warmer. Marcus had been so exhausted before the battle, half from his leg, half from carrying that damned Eagle, that Esca had feared fever almost as much as the Seal People—food will help ease those fears, and so will sleep, and warmth.  
   
Esca stands now, wraps the driest of their cloaks around Marcus’s shoulders before he can be stopped, ignoring his weak attempts to shrug him off. “You are no longer my slave,” Marcus grumbles, “and you were never my mother.”  
   
“Let me be your soldier, then,” Esca says, and sits beside him this time to make sure Marcus eats. “Is a soldier allowed to look after his centurion?”  
   
Marcus still looks displeased, but he eats when Esca does and drinks water from the satchel Esca filled from the river. He looks so much stronger than he did when Esca had to leave him to find help that it’s difficult not to stare. That a lump of shiny metal could raise Marcus up when even Esca couldn’t help him stand.  
   
“Stay here,” Esca says, shaking his head as he looks to the forest—he needs a moment, and gathering wood will serve as an excuse. “We need—“  
   
Marcus catches him by the wrist, releases him just as quickly when Esca’s hand closes into a fist, too soon after combat to do differently. “Let me,” he says, even though they’ve been sitting long enough his leg has become stiff, and he struggles to rise. “I can do it.”  
   
“So can I,” Esca snaps, pushing down on Marcus’s shoulder until he falls back onto his seat, flushed and frustrated. “Why do you fight me?”  
   
“ _Mo tràill_.”  
   
Esca feels himself go still. _My slave._  
   
“I am no longer your slave. As you said.” He chooses his words carefully. In his heart he believes Marcus to be a man of his word, but there have been no papers signed, and Esca has seen how much Romans love their papers. They have nothing more official than the return of Esca’s father’s knife, which now lies splintered and blackened in Guern’s funeral pyre.  
   
“I have not forgotten,” Marcus says, his voice low, his posture…strange. He keeps his head down, his body angled toward Esca—everything about this still battle-fresh warrior says he is not a threat.  His eyes lift to Esca’s and then drop, and it might be the heat of the flames darkening his cheeks. “But you have yet to do the same.”  
   
 _Mo tràill,_ Esca thinks again, and thinks he understands why Marcus used those words, when they were the ones Esca spoke to the Seal Prince. He feels a tightness in his ribs, along his back. “I cannot set free something I have never owned.”  
   
“You have owned me for some time,” Marcus says, voice firm, free of the anger that should be present.  
   
Esca drops into a crouch, urgent now that Marcus understand if he still has not; his hand clutches Marcus’s good leg, shakes it. “They would have killed you.”  
   
“I know.” Marcus huffs. “I do know that. Now. I meant to say—Esca, I am yours.” He ducks his head, and Esca cannot see his face. “Though truth be told…I could not wish to be free of you.”  
   
A branch snaps in the fire and Esca cannot move. Marcus can’t mean what Esca wants so deeply in himself he only dreams of it. “What of your honor?” he finally thinks to speak, voice a quiet rasp, not like it should be. Esca was a prince, once, but that was so long ago. “To serve a brigantes with no family. A savage from the north.”  
   
“You have more goodness in you than a hundred Romans. A thousand, a hundred thousand,” he says, and covers Esca’s hand with his own upon his knee. “More bravery, more loyalty, more honor. Esca...”  
   
Esca can’t help the need he feels to bring their heads together, forehead against forehead, his hand grasping too hard at the side and back of Marcus’s neck, clutching as if someone would dare try to come between them now. At least it stops him talking for a moment, though breathing is twice as difficult when he can feel Marcus’s shallow panting against his skin.  
   
“Would you—“ Marcus licks his lips, and Esca can hear it. “Would you let me serve you?”  
   
Esca pulls back just far enough to see that Marcus has his eyes closed, has braced himself to be cast off; expects it, even. Esca’s fingers convulse at Marcus’s nape, twist up into his hair. For a moment all he can see is the look on Marcus’s face when he returned with the ghosts of legionaries at his back, relief and joy and so much pride, and all of it for Esca. That he could be the one to bring Marcus to defeat now is—it’s heady and sickening all at once.  
   
So he tilts Marcus’s jaw up to kiss him. He has one too-long moment to wonder if Romans even kiss, if that’s why Marcus is so utterly still—but of course they do, Esca has seen them—before Marcus is kissing him back, clumsy but eager, _gods_ , so eager. And perhaps it is the fight today that leaves Esca’s hands shaking but more likely it is simply Marcus, the strength of him, the heart of him that makes Esca quiver in his bones.  
   
“Marcus,” he gasps, but they both misjudge their balance and topple backwards—Esca kicks dirt on half the fire trying not to fall on Marcus’s injured leg, lands braced over him instead, hand either side of Marcus’s startled face. And Esca cannot bring himself to say what he meant to, that he dreamed of this even when he should not, when he was so hurt and angry that he’d wished nothing more than to hold Marcus down and make him see the truth of the world. That Rome was ugly and brutal, cruel. But how could it be pure evil when it had made Marcus, foolish and beautiful and honorable Marcus?  
   
Esca had been half-sick with dread when he’d yanked Marcus’s head back, baring his throat for the Seal Prince, and he feels an echo of that dread in his gut when he does it now, even if Marcus sighs willingly and arches his neck up for nothing more than biting kisses.  
   
“I would have killed him in an instant if he’d moved to harm you,” Esca growls out now into the skin below Marcus’s jaw. He doesn’t expect Marcus to follow his thoughts, but Marcus clutches tighter at his hip and back as if he knows.  
   
“To fulfill your oath to me?” Marcus asks so quietly Esca almost doesn’t hear. He nips sharply against where Marcus’s skin is thinnest, where he can feel his thundering heart.  
   
“To keep you alive.” It’s too chill to shed clothes but Esca wants so very badly to feel Marcus skin to skin— _wanting_ and _being able to have_ haven’t walked hand-in-hand for Esca since he was a child. When he manages to free Marcus’s shirt enough to slide a hand inside his braccae Marcus hisses in a breath, twists in the grasp Esca still has on his hair, arching upwards for a kiss Esca gladly provides. “Marcus,” Esca pants against his mouth, “ _Faigh muin,_ Marcus, you confuse me.”  
   
Marcus shudders a laugh. “You do the same to me. Ever since I laid eyes on you in the arena.” His expression clouds as if he fears he has said too much, but a twist of Esca’s hand smooths it out again with desire. Marcus is hard and blood-hot in Esca’s hand, but he does not buck his hips, does not demand more than what Esca gives him.  
   
“You never asked me to pleasure you,” Esca murmurs, “even when it would have been your Rome-given right to take it.”  
   
Defiance flashes in Marcus’s eyes—before he can blink Esca is on his back, Marcus hardly taking care of his hurt leg to pin Esca to the ground. “I am not Rome,” he growls, and even though Esca knows how much it must cost him to say it Marcus’s jaw is set.  
   
His hands tear at the tie of Esca’s braccae, dragging them down his thighs when Esca can’t think to even lift his hips to help. Marcus’s mouth on the jut of his hip is a shock, searing contrast to the chill of on-coming night and the fact that—Esca knows Romans find this act shameful, fit only for whores, so Marcus cannot be about to, to—  
   
Esca cries out loud enough to startle a raven from its perch in the trees above them at the first tentative lick from Marcus’s tongue against the head of his cock, where the foreskin’s already pulled back a little. He tastes Esca as he would a strange dish, and Esca’s mouth waters as he realizes Marcus will taste the same—like the river and today’s battle, salty-clean and heady.  
   
“You don’t have to—Marcus,” Esca groans and Marcus holds him down harder, licks him from root to tip. It’s only when Marcus moans, a hitched, broken sound, that Esca realizes his hand is still tangled in Marcus’s hair, and when Esca gives a tentative tug Marcus goes willingly, urgently, shuddering as Esca makes him meet his eyes.  
   
“I am—Esca, I am yours.” The words come wrenched out one by one, and his head goes heavier in Esca’s grip as if he would hide against Esca’s belly. All he can do is shut his eyes and tremble. “And I wish to please you. As a…”  
   
His throat works, straining, but he cannot bring himself to say the words even though they are write large across his face. “As a slave?” Esca speaks for him, touches Marcus’s cheek until he opens his eyes once more. Marcus jerks his head in a nod, shame and need both staining his skin red.  
   
He is begging without his voice so well, and Esca would be a fool to deny him, to deny them both. But if Marcus wishes to be truly used as a slave—and gods, he shouldn’t, he can’t really, Esca has seen the hollow eyes of slaves that were and no one would truly wish for that—but if he wants to be _owned_ , then Esca would gladly hold his heart.  
   
Up on one elbow gives him a better view, lets him curl a little towards Marcus as he trails kisses down the dusting of hair below Esca’s navel to the swell of Esca’s cock. Esca cards his fingers through the wild tangle of Marcus’s hair and can’t quite let go, has to sit up more and offer himself.  
   
“Open,” he says and Marcus does, breath ghosting over too-sensitive skin. He pushes the head against Marcus’s bottom lip and drags in a near-pained gasp when Marcus’s tongue flicks out to wet it. “Don’t let me hurt you,” he orders, sees Marcus’s eyes flicker with understanding—he can throw Esca off, he’s strong enough and Esca will not fight him. Still Esca waits until Marcus nods before he dares slide inside, falling into the wet heat of Marcus’s mouth.  
   
It’s better and worse than Esca even dared to dream—better because no dreaming could come close to the tentative flicker of Marcus’s tongue, his gentle, cautious sucks; worse because Esca will not be able to last like this, it’s too good and it’s been too long and it’s Marcus and his blood is already running too hot to think beyond being careful of choking his friend, his companion, his, his—  
   
“ _M-Mine,_ ” Esca stammers out when Marcus drags his mouth off, sinks back down. He doesn’t even realize he’s no longer speaking Latin until the third time it falls out of his mouth. “ _My Marcus, oh_.”  
   
“Good?” Marcus pulls off, pushing against the hand in his hair just far enough to speak.  
   
Esca nods too quickly. “Yes,” he says, then, “Careful…” His Latin fails him, and he lets go to slide his thumb between lightly swollen lips and touch the pad to Marcus’s sharp canines; Marcus nips at him, playful, smiling and relieved, and Esca takes a breath.  
   
He hardly knows what happens next, save where before he felt a constant, bearable burn of passion, now the flames rage out of control, driven higher by Marcus’s mouth than should have been possible—he’s sloppy and gods, wet, but so eager for it Esca has to clutch his cock at the root to keep Marcus from choking himself trying to take too much inside. Too soon Marcus is batting his hand aside, stroking the part of Esca he cannot wrap himself around, and—Ha, Esca thinks, laughs at himself for thinking Marcus would truly treat this as a slave’s duty, not to be enjoyed. For thinking Marcus was so changed he would not fight for Esca’s release as he had fought for everything worth keeping in his life.  
   
Esca has to fight Marcus off his cock before he comes because it’s too much, Marcus is too far away and Esca will fly apart, shattered under Marcus’s hands into a hundred useless pieces if he gives in now. Marcus rolls with a groan, needy and writhing under the press of Esca’s body; his braccae twist around his ankles and pull taught but he has no patience left to take them off. His hands are on Marcus’s wrists, pressing them to the bedding bunched beneath his head as Marcus takes a startled breath and keeps it, eyes wide and too trusting, as they’d been when they set off from Calleva. Unbidden knowledge digs at the spaces between Esca’s ribs, knowledge that once had been a comfort to his burning anger—if Old Aquila had picked any other slave for his nephew then Marcus would be dead, lost in the glens like his father and The Eagle.    
   
“I would.” Esca chokes and must begin again. “I would be your equal. In this. In all things.”  
   
Marcus’s lips part as if he’s about to argue, and Esca can’t bear it, shifts down his body to press kiss after kiss to his mouth. It’s been so long since the kisses of his youth, playful and near-meaningless, girls and boys, all of them dead now—that Marcus came so close to joining their numbers makes him ache.  
   
Then Marcus gives a quiet moan, shifting restlessly under Esca’s weight, so close to being able to push his hips up and meet the curve of Esca’s ass. And yes, he thinks, some day when they have better shelter and supplies, when their bellies are full and the furs on the bed are warm, Esca will show Marcus the joy of fucking and being fucked. If he has not already learned. But for now—  
   
Letting go of Marcus’s wrists means both their hands are free to roam, and Marcus’s do, down the curve of Esca’s haunches to pull him ever closer as Esca makes fast work of his braccae. Marcus gives a yelp of pleasure as his cock is freed, as Esca smooths the wetness at his tip down, encircling them both with a hand. Marcus’s fingers twist with his, warmer, larger, just as roughened. The friction is almost painful but desperation makes up for it, and the gasping, biting kisses Marcus scatters on his throat.  
   
“Esca,” Marcus pants hot against his skin, “Yes, I— _Esca_.”  
   
His hips buck up and he pulls Esca close, and Esca shudders out curses and praise in his own tongue at the first hot splash of Marcus’s seed, rocking with Marcus’s stuttering thrusts until he can’t help following him over the edge; Esca comes until the last spurt is wrung from him and he clenches, emptied. Calls Marcus beautiful, calls him loved. That he can say these things and not be heard—Esca doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse.  
   
Night is coming on quickly and the fire’s dying down, leaving Esca feeling bare-assed and chilled but not yet foolish. His fingers won’t come unknotted from Marcus’s clothing, but he knows he must move soon—they’re beginning to stick together. But he can feel Marcus breathing, hear his heartbeat, and he doesn’t want to give it up.  
   
It is Marcus who shifts them onto their sides, not quite untangled yet, and they rest their heads together as they did in the river, gathering the strength they need to be parted.  
   
Then it is quick work—Esca pulling up his braccae as Marcus throws their spare wood on the guttering coals, and quiet squabbling as Esca tries to arrange their bedding more favorably; Marcus should be closer to the heat for his leg, with Esca at his back, but Marcus raises his eyebrows and says, “No,” in a way that brooks no argument. The other arrangement, the one that makes the most sense but least appeals, is one on either side of the fire as they have done before, but Esca finds he cannot bear the thought of sleeping out of reach of Marcus tonight.  
   
So they settle down, awkward at first, and then easier when Esca elbows Marcus in the chest and rolls over, front-to-front as they had been before. “You make an awful slave,” Esca grumbles, gratified when Marcus grins.  
   
“I could have learned for the right master,” he protests, smiling all the way to his eyes. It has been so long since Esca’s seen that smile that he can’t help but stretch up, touch his mouth to the corner of his happiness.  
   
“I like you as you are now,” he admits, and Marcus blushes. “Stubborn. Honorable. Foolish, but your heart is good. Not too Roman.”  
   
“Equals in all things,” Marcus says with meaning, but sobers when Esca smirks. “I would have it so. But others in Rome will always see you as my lesser, and I will not have the legal right to correct them.”  
   
“How long must we stay in Rome?”  
   
“Only long enough to deliver The Eagle,” Marcus says, wary. “Esca, I mean to say you do not have to follow me there. We can meet up after—“  
   
“I will go,” Esca cuts him off. “If I don’t, you’ll get yourself into trouble.” Marcus’s mouth twists in doubt, but his eyes say he is relieved. “Will they not want to give you back your armor for this?” Esca makes himself ask. “Your leg will regain most of its strength, given time and rest, and they will want to reward you.”  
   
Marcus sighs, as if Esca is being dim. “I have lost my taste for serving Rome as I once did.” Esca finds himself thinking of the bracelet Marcus had never worn— _Honor and Faithfulness_ —and how he’d imagined the weight of it must feel like a shackle. But Marcus’s hand tightens on Esca’s arm, thumb stroking through layers of clothing along the lines of his tattoos, and Esca feels he better understands.  
  
“I would rather serve my heart,” Marcus says, very still, not letting himself shy away from the words. Holding his ground, every inch the man Esca would follow to the ends of the earth.  
  
“ _Mo cridhe_ ,” Esca says, and places his hand on Marcus’s chest. “My heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be found [here](http://queenklu.livejournal.com/404760.html) on lj if you're interested! :D


End file.
